In Every World, In Every Reality
by Shadowy Star
Summary: A collection of various AUs I wanted in one place. Chapter summary: On the verge of sleep, the youthful voice is soft and no longer monochrome. D/G
1. Double, Double, Tribbles Trouble

**In Every World, In Every Reality**

by Shadowy Star

July 2014

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Coldfire trilogy nor any other books, tv series, movies etc. mentioned or used here. They belong to their respective creators. I do own this story. Characters, places, locations and organizations not appearing or being mentioned in said books, tv series, movies are also mine. Do not archive or translate or otherwise use without permission.

**A/N:** A collection of various AUs I wanted in one place. They're all D/G, no matter the universe.

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**Double, Double, Tribbles Trouble**

**Summary:** When Captain Vryce returned to his ship from a much needed vacation, he wasn't expecting, well, this. D/G

**A/N:** hobgoblin123, that one's for you, honey. StarTrek fusion!AU.

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"Commander Tarrant, in my room," he said, and quickly crossed the bridge of the 'Heart of the Flame', his beautiful Nebula-class ship, sweeping many cooing brown and sand-colored balls of fur from various consoles in the process.

"Care to explain why I return from a week's vacation to find my ship infested with a dangerous life form even kindergarten children know not to keep as pets?" he inquired when the doors whooshed closed, trying to keep his voice mild.

"They seemed harmless when Ensign Lessing brought them from her visit home five days ago, and were certificated to have a much slower reproduction rate," his stoic First began, standing at full attention, his uniform impeccable as usual. Not even a trace of tribble hair. "And everyone was instructed not to feed them – much, that is," he continued, looking slightly uncomfortable. Which was probably the only facial expression Damien was going to get. Sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder if the unflappable man had any Vulcans somewhere in his family tree. "We didn't want to have a repeat of that infamous Enterprise incident. I don't know what went wrong."

"Ah. And what would be your recommendation to how we dispose of a shipload of tribbles?"

The other man quirked a brow, and Damien could see a slight relaxing in the muscles of a slender neck. "Send them to Qo'noS express and with a big red bow, of course."

"Of course." Damien laughed, then walked over to kiss his lover senseless. When they resurfaced for air, he continued. "Next time, we're going on vacation together. Captain's orders. That way, Lieutenant Commander sa'Restrath can practice her commanding skills and _you_ won't be getting into trouble. Or causing trouble, for that matter."

Gerald glared.

_FIN_


	2. Elegy

**Elegy**

**Summary:** Some say it was revenge for killing his loved one. Some say it was pain. Some say it was grief. Implied past D/G.

**A/N:** Written quickly while I should be sleeping. I'll probably regret it in the morning. Future!AU.

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They say the Immortal Emperor doesn't feel. They say he isn't even able to. In the whole of five millenia, there has never been any feeling showing on his beautiful alabaster face, no smile has ever touched his thin lips, no tear has ever left his cold gray eyes. There's just – nothing. No rage, no fury, no annoyance, no serenity, no peace.

The Immortal Emperor is unfeeling and distant.

That, in itself, is a blessing. The earliest chronicles vividly describe what happened in the first days of his reign when his fury has been unleashed upon the Church of Unification, the Southern continent and some native species called rakh. The Church has survived – shaken, broken and reformed beyond recognition by the very hand and mind that have shaped it into existence all those thousands of years ago. The Church, now called The Church of Compassion, has survived. The South and the rakh haven't.

Some say it was revenge for killing his loved one. Some say it was pain. Some say it was grief. No one knows, and no one is insane enough to ask. The Immortal Emperor walks and breathes the night, and rules with a fist of iron and fae and nightmares. Some say he's lost his capacity for feeling even before his rise to power, back then, when he's been the Hunter.

They are all wrong.

There's a sculpture of finest, rarest golden nu-marble in the Emperor's always darkened rooms, crafted by the Emperor's own hands. It depicts a man in his middle to late thirties, with shoulder-long hair and the build and height of a warrior. It's a figure found in every church, every cathedral across the two remaining continents though this one shows the Holiest One in a unusual position – sitting relaxed on a rock, his ever-present sword propped against it, chin on the fist of one hand, the other stretched out in invitation. The sharp angles of his face are softened by the slightest curl of sensual lips and a hint of mischievousness in the crinkle of expressive eyes.

It's here, kneeling before this particular statue of Holy Damien, Lord of Compassion, it's here that the Immortal Emperor weeps.

_FIN_


	3. Hora Somni

**Hora Somni**

**Summary:** On the verge of sleep, the youthful voice is soft and no longer monochrome. D/G Modern Earth!AU

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Bright moonlight sneaks in through partly closed curtains, bathing the man on the bed in harsh lines and sooty shadows. A monochrome painting of a slender shape and long limbs, sprawled across the bed in the arrogant, lazy way of a cat, skin leached of its olive color. Black hair flows across the pillow like spilled ink. Equally black lashes rest against high cheekbones. The man sleeps on.

The door opens without a sound, and another man slips in just as soundlessly. He crosses the room, all that expanse of charcoal gray right to the bed, and stops there.

The younger man on the bed awakes with a minute smile. He opens his black eyes and watches his lover watch him, his gaze sliding over the powerful frame. Another ray of light, softer now, illuminates the older man, making pale highlights dance on his chestnut brown hair, and just like that, color returns to that black and white photograph – the swirl of green and brown in the hazel eyes, the sun-kissed skin, glowing pale gold even now, the dark blue of a expensive jacket, discarded to the floor, followed by the pristine white of a shirt.

"Mm. Congress end early?" the black-haired man asks, sitting, wrapping his arms around his lover's strong frame.

The hazel-eyed one, unashamedly naked now, grins. Slides under the silk sheets. "Yeah." His deep voice almost a color of its own, dark and warm like hot chocolate. "Got the earliest flight possible."

"Weren't the air controllers in DC collectively on strike? And–" Whatever was intended to be said never makes it past a kiss that starts passionate and ends lazy and calming. "Missed you." On the verge of sleep, the youthful voice is soft and no longer monochrome.

"Missed you, too. Sleep, Gerald."

_FIN_


End file.
